


Memorabilia

by noonaya



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 11:44:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20852888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noonaya/pseuds/noonaya
Summary: They always knew something was missing.





	Memorabilia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tangerina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangerina/gifts).

> I'm sad thinking about Mike being the only one to remember their friendship and I like to believe all of the Losers had a vague idea they're missing something important.
> 
> It's my first time publishing a fanfiction in years, and my first time ever publishing something in English (not my first language).
> 
> Thanks @brunettelovegood, my dear beta reader in both my first and second language ♥

Beverly Marsh can see the sun rising through the thin curtains. In a normal day, she would sleep in on a Saturday morning, wake up slowly, sit at her table eating a big breakfast with everything she liked. Now, she couldn’t imagine herself eating anything. Her stomach is upset. Her throat feels tight. She breathes deeply, trying not to make any noise, trying to not wake him up.

But he’s sleeping heavy, his head almost buried in the pillow, his eyes shut. She could almost see his dreams, so relaxing, so calm.

Like he never did nothing wrong in all his damn life.

She presses her hands together in her lap, trying to fall asleep, but it didn’t happened at night, it wouldn’t happen now. The winter day was starting cold and crispy, and she should be thinking about her company, about her friend’s birthday next week, about some movie or book or anything else, but she thinks about the pain.

It doesn’t hurt anymore, not really. But she knows it’s there.

When her feet hit the ground, Bev tries to move gently, so maybe he would not notice she wasn’t in bed. She didn’t want to start it all over again. She didn’t want to give him a _ reason _.

In the bathroom, still a little too dark, she turns the light on to face the mirror and find her own face looking back at her with a sad expression. She sees the bruise on her neck, a yellow-ish, sick color around the purple. She sees it below her left eye, almost blue, the contrast with the red in her eyebrow, the blood clogged.

He said it was the last time, _ exactly like last time _. But Beverly isn’t thinking about.

She thinks about the pain, and how she doesn't feel it anymore. Somewhere between last night and this morning the pain was gone. Everything she had was a big, heavy, spacious void.

Like she lost a very important object. Or she forgot a vital appointment. Like she was missing a fucking limb.

Bev hadn’t feel pain, or anger, or sadness. She couldn’t feel absolutely nothing. Looking at herself, at those bruises, she could almost see the void behind her eyes. There was no one there anymore.

She closes her eyes so she doesn't need to face herself. That’s when she sees it.

She’s up in the air, hearing voices she can’t identified. Her body touches cold water and she embraces it, feeling refreshed, joyful, _ alive _. And when she returns to surface, when she opens her eyes again…

In the mirror, her eyes are shining. She can’t remember where that memory came from. But it filled her up. She knows the void is still there, but can’t feel it anymore.

Bev sighs, relieved, feeling like that day isn’t impossible like she once thought. She’s ready to try again.

Before leaving the bathroom, she turns around and looks in the mirror one more time. The sun shining through the window makes her hair glister. Like it’s on fire.

_ Winter fire _, she thinks, but doesn’t know why.

Her heart burns, too.

-

Richie Tozier walks into the stage with his best smile and what was unfortunately his best shirt, greeting everyone as if he wasn’t dying inside. It didn’t matter how many gigs he had (a lot), or how much he believed in his own talent (almost nothing), he was always so anxious he almost gave up minutes before the show, and his new agent, looking at him while pulling the curtains so he could see the stage, was the only reason why he didn’t kissed that night goodbye.

Richie couldn’t afford to screw this up. It was his third agent that year. The first two said his material was _ good, but not exactly work _, and god forbid they explaining more than that.

He sits in the stool at the center of the stage and breathes deeply before getting the microphone.

“So, two jews walk into a bar…”

_ Beep beep, Richie. _

He notices the voice in his head before noticing the audience. A posh looking guy close to the stage smiles. The girl beside him looks uncomfortable. A man in his thirties, more in the back of the crowd, crosses his arms. But the voice is so, so clear, is like no one else is there.

It’s not the first time he hears it. It happened before, like a whisper in his ear when he does sexist shit, or when he’s about to say the n word, or when he is a jerk in general. Richie likes to think it’s his consciousness, his Jiminy Cricket, who happens to sound like a boy too young to be this aware.

It was the voice who always tells him to call his friends, and to try to apply for new gigs, and to eat something for god’s sake, and please _ take a fucking shower _. It wasn’t his anxiety, he knew, because his anxiety was insane, a freak living in his stomach. This voice was in his brain, calm, clean, protective and sane.

But now the voice was louder and clearer and was telling him to stop. And Richie knows better than doing otherwise. He wasn’t a child anymore.

“... is a pretty old and not funny way to start a fucking stand up, right?” he said, getting up as the girl next to the stage chuckles, and the man in the back relax his arms again, and even the posh guy smiles wider.

“We didn’t let the jew thing behind yet? That’s insane. My grandpa made jokes like that and they weren’t funny either! Of course, grandma laughed, god bless her, she had a poor sense of humor and that’s the family that birthed me.”

While his agent smiles and the public laugh, Richie keeping on telling jokes about parents he didn’t really have. The voice in his head makes his heart lighter.

-

Bill Denbrough was laid down, his arms around Audra waist, asking himself if she was asleep. He couldn’t sleep, of course; the ideas were clearer, more creative, when the night had fall and all the neighbourhood seemed quieter. He tries to get up without disturbing her, knowing that the relationship was too young for her to be bothered with his writing habits.

He walks to his living room and sits in front of his computer, writing a few words before really feeling like he’s getting it, as the story isn’t just an abstract idea but something visceral, real.

Bill writes about these children he keeps seeing in his dreams, about how they defeat the devil. He’s so focused he just notices Audra sitting on the couch because she kisses his neck first.

“Working?” she asks, but she knows the answer.

“Thought you’re sleeping,” he said, smiling at her tired face, at her messy hair, at her lazy smile. Audra was fantastic. She was so, so fantastic.

“Tell me a story,” she asks, laying down, supporting her head in her hands. “Tell me about your first love.”

She didn’t sound jealous or nosy. She just wants to listen to him. Bill smiles and then sighs, trying to not let himself down. He barely remembers anything from his childhood or teenage years, but he’s going to try for her.

He closes his eyes, trying to remember a name, a face, a history behind it. He sees beautiful, brilliant eyes. A hair red as fire. And seems to remember a voice, a laugh, something he couldn't recognise. Every time he reaches her hand, she runs away, as if she knows everything will come to an end when they finally met.

Bill opens his eyes to find Audra’s brilliant ones, and her fiery hair, and her way of running away from him every time he gets too close. And he decides to take that risk. He sits on the couch with her, running his fingers through her hair.

“I think my first love was you,” he confesses, watching her expression change from curious to startled to confused to happy.

When Audra kisses him, Bill almost believes there was never no one else.

-

Stanley Uris tries to lift the book beside his bed, but it feels too heavy and falls on the floor. His head spins when he goes back to his initial position. He’s not okay. Of course, anyone that sick isn’t okay, but it’s not just the flu. He knows he was supposed to be at work. He knows Patty couldn’t be more worried with the house and her parents coming to visit.

Stan doesn’t want to be a problem, but he knows he would be even if he was healthy. Patty would never said it out loud, but he’s sure her parents don’t like him.

She comes from a lawyers and judges family, and her comfortable flat in a big city, which none grad student could ever afford, isn’t the only way he could tell since the beginning she’s very wealthy. She surely didn’t grew up in a small town that was so interesting there was nothing to remember.

Patty was sophisticated, and beautiful, and kind and gentle. She bought him books about bird species and herself binoculars so they could go to the parks and watch birds together.

And know he was cold sweating in her sheets and making her afternoon harder with his flu.

_ I shouldn’t be walking in the rain when I could take the bus _ , he thinks to himself. _ I should wear more clothes when it’s windy. I should be eating healthy and I… _

His thoughts stop for a moment and he doesn’t know why. There is something in his mind he cannot put his finger on. He reminds himself of someone. A memory, a tiny voice in his brain, a familiar face. Is it a friend? Someone from school?

Stan can’t remember anything from that time, still that memory is somewhere there. He feels like picking his own brain to find out. It’s important, and it would make a difference on a day he’s feeling like shit, and he doesn’t know why it’s coming for him right now. But suddenly he’s better. Not like the flu has gone away, but like he doesn’t need to worry anymore.

He’s going to take care of himself. And of Patty, if she wants him to. Stan knows he just needs to rest and drink water and take his meds and everything is going to be okay again.

“How is Stan the Man?” Patty’s voice and giggles get him out of his thoughts. “Feeling better? I made you soup.”

And he doesn’t know if it’s Patty sweet eyes, or the bowl of chicken noodle soup she puts in his lap, or the nostalgic, familiar feeling the words “Stan the Man” had, but he starts crying.

-

Eddie Kaspbrak feels sick, but it’s not news for him. His stomach hurts, and his head is not in the best condition, and his back has seen better days. He knows he can’t talk about it, at least not toMyra. She is going to freak out. She would stop him from working during the weekend and, oh god, he didn’t want to be home on the weekends, when she didn’t work at all.

He knows he should be more considerate, since it’s his wife he’s thinking about. But things with Myra weren’t the best now.

Eddie didn’t knew when it started. At the beginning, she seemed so sweet, being always worried about his health. Worrying was his love language, it made him so at ease. Felt like home.

But now she wasn’t worrying; _ she was freaking him out _.

The more she talked about diseases, health problems, general dangers, the worst he felt. It was like he couldn’t relax even for a second. Even a good hot shower made him think if the water wasn’t stripping the natural oils of his skin and causing sensibility.

When he opens the door and finds Myra sitting on the couch, watching TV, Eddie almost turns back and stays in the street.

“Oh, you’re home!” she says, so happy he feels guilty.

Myra waits for him to approach and Eddie does, out of habit. He kisses her and it’s also just a habit.

The TV is playing a stand up comedy, a new addiction to Myra. The comedian, a middle-aged caucasian man, looks like a college student too old to be there.

Eddie sits down when she says he can wait, she will pick up their dinner.

“You know how moms are,” the comedian says, and the audience laughs even before the punchline. “My mom says ‘good night and bless you’ when calls me like she’s already predicting I’ll sneeze later.”

Eddie laughs too, thinking about Sonia. “She just knows it!” the comedian keeps on going. “Like she knows you’re lying, you know? ‘Mom, I’m just going to play ball with Richard!’ like, yeah, she knows you’re just ‘_ playing ball _ ’ with _ ‘Richard,’ _” he says, and the audience laughs hysterically.

Eddie smiles, but doesn’t laugh. There’s something in his stomach that isn’t the pain he felt earlier. Something about the joke that makes him uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time.

Suddenly, he thinks about how his life would be if Myra wasn’t there. If he started his business sooner, and not just after his mom passed away. He thinks about himself, alone, watching stand up comedians on TV. Oh, fuck, maybe he could watch it _ live _if Myra wasn’t there to act so paranoid about going out at night.

“It’s here. Spaghetti.” Her voice startles him.

“What did you called me?” he asks, feeling weird inside.

“I didn’t. We’re having spaghetti for dinner,” Myra explains, sitting by his side.

Her weight in the couch is so familiar. Her laugh is so comfortable. Her voice is so sweet. Eddie tries his best to not wander around anymore.

-

Ben Hascom decides he’ll take the long road home this time. Walking through the neighborhood makes more sense than getting a cab in that stupid big city, and he didn’t lived so far away from his company anyway. Ben likes to think about it -- about _ his company _, how much he accomplished in so little time, and how far he could go. The autumn leaves under his feet make the walking even better to get him alone inside his head.

But when he gets to this point, he stops walking. That’s why he never walks his way home -- that’s when Ben always realize he’s alone. Even when he’s in the company, with his team, he’s trying to prove himself worthy of his position. He doesn't make friends there.

He doesn’t make friends _ anywhere _.

He knows he’s missing the world even if he has the job he loves and makes a lot of money from it. That’s why, despite what all the magazines say about him, Ben doesn’t feel successful at all. He looks around, searching for a place to sit down and try to take his thoughts in another direction. Or maybe just call a cab. But there’s a library just by his side.

He smiles, thinking about how these old friends won’t ever leave him alone. Ben feels better the moment he opens the door and see all the books in front of him. So many places to visit, so many people to meet.

He’s searching for a good title when finds one of his favorites poetry books. It’s always good to reconnect with old friends.

But when he tries to get it from the book shelf, another person tries to pick the same book, and Ben sees him in that space the book leaves behind -- dark skin, dark hair, eyes older than the face. His heart suddenly shrinks and he lets the book go.

“Oh, sorry!” says the guy, leaving his hallway to find Ben in the other side, still startled by his own feelings. “You’re going to read this book? I just need to copy its number, you can have it,” he says, showing Ben the computer in the front desk.

“You’re the librarian?” he asks, even though he already knows.

The man smiles at him and nods. “Are you new here?”

Ben feels a pull in his stomach, a weird pain in his skin, and his heart feels even smaller now. He is missing something, but don’t know what it is.

He just nods, agreeing, before saying he would like to check out the book.

The librarian smiles again, looking at the title. “I love haikus too!”

Ben recognises he’s trying to be gentle and friendly, but he doesn’t know how to react, and when he leaves, the book against his chest, he never felt lonelier.

-

Mike Hanlon opens the box to find Bill Denbrough’s name staring at him.

He knew the books where coming, since he ordered it himself, but it was always a surprise. Bill’s name was everywhere now, and every one was talking about his movie adaptations and his deals with big TV companies. Mike wasn’t particularly interested in this. He just wanted to read the books.

He sits on his couch at night, reading those pages as a dedicated student, searching for the answer he needs. And it’s always there.

There’s a boy who runs away from his mother because he’s braver than she thinks. There is a gentle kid who writes love poems about the prettiest girl in school. There’s a fierce girl who goes through hell and finds herself better when she comes out of it. There’s a neat, uptight man who wants to play by the rules, but changes his mind when the ones he loves are in danger. There’s a guy who makes terrible inappropriate jokes to try to stop his big dumb heart to get too vulnerable.

And the new book feats this man. Someone who suffered too much for his age, and grew too fast, and is too wise and sad to know how to open up. A man who’s lonely because he can’t lose anyone else.

Mike smiles at himself.

The void inside of him has faces and names and is full of memorabilias he sometimes wants to throw away. Every single day he wishes their faces would vanish from his mind, and he wouldn’t remember their voices, or smiles, or the moment he knew they would be the only people he ever could love.

He caresses the book pages, feeling selfish in his joy.

Somewhere, somehow, he knows they all remember it too.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my weird love letter to @Tangerina, my favourite writer in this fandom, the mother of my children (the Losers Club). It's also a payback for everytime I cried reading her work.


End file.
